Fic: "In From the Cold" J2 AU rated-R Ch. 3/?
I should really spread these out, but it was done and beta'ed and corrected and I couldn't think of a valid reason not to put it up.
There are three things that Jensen knows: cold, pain, fear. He’s felt all three, in varying degrees for as long as he can remember. Fear is a whisper of dread or a sharp stab of panic. Cold is a knife that peels the skin from his face or an ache that makes him tense against it for hours or the wind dancing through him soft and sweet and calling to him to sleep. The pain is in his head always and sometimes his joints or his feet when he walks too far. Other things come and go--hunger, fever.
When Jensen wakes and finds nothing, no hurt, no chill, a new terror blooms to life in his chest, a fear of the unknown, a fear that he’s lost everything he can remember. He freezes, heart pounding and muscles clenching. Quiet. A slow steady hum. Alone, which is safer than not-alone.
He’s warm, completely warm, not the one-sided heat of a steel-drum fire. There’s softness all around him, cloth over his body, cushions under and behind him. He doesn’t know what it means for a long, terrifying while. His memory wakes slower than he did, images, thoughts coming to him like the sun dawning on the sleepy dark places of the city.
He remembers a voice, soft and strong. Talking in questions and askings. Never through him, only to him. Gentle hands. Bath. He’d known the word, but not what it felt like to have the water around him, prickling like needles and then soothing all the places where his skin is raw.
A crawling is in his chest, twisting around with restless squirming. He doesn’t--he doesn’t know. This isn’t his place. The man with the hands, the Jared, it’s his place. Even if he wants to share, it’s not Jensen's place.
There’s plenty of light, from the squares of the windows. Jensen sees his clothes there near his feet, and he reaches out to find them with his fingers too. He watches while he pulls the bundle nearer, searching the shadows for anything bad, for anybody bad. He hasn’t been inside much. Jeff doesn’t like the insides of buildings, and Jeff keeps him safe, so there must be danger inside.
Still wary, still watching, Jensen wriggles out of the clothes he’s in and pulls on the clothes that are his. His own things feel good, even if the shirt and sweater and socks are new. He flexes his toes in his shoes, feeling the differences. Not just different, he decides after a second, better.
The sun is up, daytime. Time to find a safe place to sleep, a warm place to sleep. He doesn’t know where he is, how to find the bridge or the alley or the doorways he knows. He can’t be out when the sun goes down. The wind will cut him and the bad people will find him and Jeff will worry. Jeff hates to worry. He says so.
He remembers the way they came in, the door. There’s a chain and a turn-thing. A lock. Jensen slips out into the hall and nobody is there either. He finds one down and follows it. Another door and then he is in the sun, cold and sharp. He squints against the glare of it, searching for marks he knows, places or signs.
He doesn’t see anything he knows so he walks. Cars drive by. People pass him on the sidewalk, going to wherever the people go. “For the light will make you whole,” Jensen says as a girl in a denim jacket looks at him. He doesn’t know her. She’s not his friend. He wants her to not-look and he says things to be invisible to her, bits and words like Whiskey Dan says, moves like Old Hettie, rocking his head from side to side. “Lost children in the big world stolen from the green places.” She steps further away from him and he feels safe again.
Jensen walks until he’s tired. He doesn’t know how far it is. He rests in a corner in a shadow. It’s colder than in the sun but it feels safer. His chest hurts, high up by his shoulder and lower, around the side. Breathing hurts. Cars go by on the street and he sees one he thinks he knows, light blue with dapples of darker color along the bottom. It pulls into the far lane and turns left and he thinks it was Jared driving it. Maybe Jared’s going back to the light place.
The sun is leaving and Jensen is very hungry and very thirsty when he finds the street with the sign that has a triangle on one end and a snake on the other. He knows the sign but not the corner so he follows it until the area starts to look familiar, bright cars and dark shadows, signs that blink and girls that don’t wear much clothes, even if it’s cold.
Weariness is in his bones but he’s glad to be where he knows again, he’s not so afraid. He shuffles towards one of the places he sleeps if nobody is there before him, and then Jeff is in front of him, hands on his shoulders, calling his name, asking things that Jensen doesn’t understand or doesn’t know how to answer. Jeff’s big rough hands smooth over Jensen's hair, and Jensen leans in against him.
“Son of a bitch,” Jeff is whispering, over and over, “Son of a bitch, I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”
There are three things that Jensen knows: cold, pain, fear. He’s felt all three, in varying degrees for as long as he can remember. Fear is a whisper of dread or a sharp stab of panic. Cold is a knife that peels the skin from his face or an ache that makes him tense against it for hours or the wind dancing through him soft and sweet and calling to him to sleep. The pain is in his head always and sometimes his joints or his feet when he walks too far. Other things come and go--hunger, fever.
When Jensen wakes and finds nothing, no hurt, no chill, a new terror blooms to life in his chest, a fear of the unknown, a fear that he’s lost everything he can remember. He freezes, heart pounding and muscles clenching. Quiet. A slow steady hum. Alone, which is safer than not-alone.
He’s warm, completely warm, not the one-sided heat of a steel-drum fire. There’s softness all around him, cloth over his body, cushions under and behind him. He doesn’t know what it means for a long, terrifying while. His memory wakes slower than he did, images, thoughts coming to him like the sun dawning on the sleepy dark places of the city.
He remembers a voice, soft and strong. Talking in questions and askings. Never through him, only to him. Gentle hands. Bath. He’d known the word, but not what it felt like to have the water around him, prickling like needles and then soothing all the places where his skin is raw.
A crawling is in his chest, twisting around with restless squirming. He doesn’t--he doesn’t know. This isn’t his place. The man with the hands, the Jared, it’s his place. Even if he wants to share, it’s not Jensen's place.
There’s plenty of light, from the squares of the windows. Jensen sees his clothes there near his feet, and he reaches out to find them with his fingers too. He watches while he pulls the bundle nearer, searching the shadows for anything bad, for anybody bad. He hasn’t been inside much. Jeff doesn’t like the insides of buildings, and Jeff keeps him safe, so there must be danger inside.
Still wary, still watching, Jensen wriggles out of the clothes he’s in and pulls on the clothes that are his. His own things feel good, even if the shirt and sweater and socks are new. He flexes his toes in his shoes, feeling the differences. Not just different, he decides after a second, better.
The sun is up, daytime. Time to find a safe place to sleep, a warm place to sleep. He doesn’t know where he is, how to find the bridge or the alley or the doorways he knows. He can’t be out when the sun goes down. The wind will cut him and the bad people will find him and Jeff will worry. Jeff hates to worry. He says so.
He remembers the way they came in, the door. There’s a chain and a turn-thing. A lock. Jensen slips out into the hall and nobody is there either. He finds one down and follows it. Another door and then he is in the sun, cold and sharp. He squints against the glare of it, searching for marks he knows, places or signs.
He doesn’t see anything he knows so he walks. Cars drive by. People pass him on the sidewalk, going to wherever the people go. “For the light will make you whole,” Jensen says as a girl in a denim jacket looks at him. He doesn’t know her. She’s not his friend. He wants her to not-look and he says things to be invisible to her, bits and words like Whiskey Dan says, moves like Old Hettie, rocking his head from side to side. “Lost children in the big world stolen from the green places.” She steps further away from him and he feels safe again.
Jensen walks until he’s tired. He doesn’t know how far it is. He rests in a corner in a shadow. It’s colder than in the sun but it feels safer. His chest hurts, high up by his shoulder and lower, around the side. Breathing hurts. Cars go by on the street and he sees one he thinks he knows, light blue with dapples of darker color along the bottom. It pulls into the far lane and turns left and he thinks it was Jared driving it. Maybe Jared’s going back to the light place.
The sun is leaving and Jensen is very hungry and very thirsty when he finds the street with the sign that has a triangle on one end and a snake on the other. He knows the sign but not the corner so he follows it until the area starts to look familiar, bright cars and dark shadows, signs that blink and girls that don’t wear much clothes, even if it’s cold.
Weariness is in his bones but he’s glad to be where he knows again, he’s not so afraid. He shuffles towards one of the places he sleeps if nobody is there before him, and then Jeff is in front of him, hands on his shoulders, calling his name, asking things that Jensen doesn’t understand or doesn’t know how to answer. Jeff’s big rough hands smooth over Jensen's hair, and Jensen leans in against him.
“Son of a bitch,” Jeff is whispering, over and over, “Son of a bitch, I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”